


When the Levee Breaks

by Monsieur_dAuriac (Vera_dAuriac)



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Drinking, Gen, Hangover, Humor, Puns & Word Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 07:54:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11122977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_dAuriac/pseuds/Monsieur_dAuriac
Summary: A pun in search of a fic.





	When the Levee Breaks

One day in late summer, the Sun King held a levee at Versailles.  All the nobles were commanded to attend, of course, and that included even Philippe Bourbon, the great Duke of Orleans and his lover, the Chevalier de Lorraine. 

Monsieur, as the duke was known, was actually a kindly man to his servants, however he might have behaved in the salons of the great and powerful.  And knowing that the king was likely to party far into the night, he decided to drive his own carriage, so that his driver and footmen would not have to stay out late. 

“Don’t bother to wait up,” he told his valet.  “Chevy and I will probably be sleeping over there.”  Then he cracked the whip, and he and his lover rode off from St.-Cloud toward Versailles. 

They anticipated a whole day and night of revelry, but when they arrived at the great palace, they discovered that everyone seemed listless and despondent.  “What is this?” cried the Chevalier.  “What sort of party is this, then?” 

As they reached the entrance hall, a blonde woman stalked angrily to them.  It was Monsieur’s wife, Liselotte, and the duke couldn’t help taking an apprehensive step backwards when he saw the look of grim, Teutonic determination in her eyes. 

“ _Mein Gott_!” she cried.  “Philippe, darling, you have to do something.  I had no beer for breakfast!” 

“A scandal,” said the Chevalier, rolling his eyes. 

“It really is,” said Liselotte.  “I’m a woman of few needs, Philippe—just hunting, schnitzel, and beer, and not in that order.  You’ve got to speak to your brother.” 

Before the duke could answer her, there was a commotion nearby, and they all turned to see Madame de Montespan, the king’s mistress, berating a servant at the drinks table.  “What the hell is this?” she cried, holding up a crystal goblet of some strange, clear liquid. 

“Um…water, my lady,” said the unfortunate footman. 

“Water?” 

“Er, yes, my lady.  Water.”

Montespan muttered the word a few times to herself.  Then her thin eyebrows arched upward.  “You mean like we use in the fountains?”  She made a face and set the glass down again.  “Good god.  I’m not drinking that.” 

From the far end of the hall, they heard the tap of the chamberlain’s staff on the marble floor, and the cry, “The king!”  Everyone fell silent, as the duke’s elder brother, Louis XIV, came into the room. 

His majesty looked dreadful, with pale skin—even paler than usual, in fact.  He was sweating, and he was hunched slightly over, with a hand up to shield his eyes from the light streaming in the windows.  A murmur of dismay ran through the assembled courtiers.  Surely the king could not be ill, could he? 

Then Louis raised his hand for silence, and spoke.  “My friends, you will have noticed that there is no alcohol anymore.  I have decided to banish the stuff from my palace forever.  Henceforth, Versailles will be a place of clear minds and sober reflection.” 

Louder muttering broke out now, and to the duke’s right, the Chevalier said, “Good lord.  No wine at the French court?  It’s a national disgrace!” 

Leaving his wife and lover, Philippe sidled over to Bontemps, the king’s valet.  “What’s going on here?” he demanded.  “Since when did my brother decide we can’t have booze?” 

“Since last night,” said the valet gravely.  “He had a drinking contest with William of Orange.” 

“I take it he lost,” said the duke, looking across the room at his brother’s pained visage. 

“Oh, no, Monsieur, he won.  As a result, France has gained Maastricht.” 

“Really?  So what did the loser have to do?”

“The loser,” said Bontemps with a shudder, “has to be King of England.” 

A few minutes later, Philippe managed to get his brother alone in a small side parlor.  “Look here, Louis,” he said.  “You can’t stop serving alcohol at court.  It’s like trying to run an army without guns.” 

But his majesty was adamant.  “If I even smell wine,” he moaned, “I’ll vomit.  So if I can’t drink, no one can.” 

The duke continued to argue for some time, but eventually he had to give up.  He returned to the hall, where he collected his dear Chevalier and bade goodbye to his wife.  “Farewell, darling,” he said.  “Feel free to stop by my place if you need a drink.” 

It was still daylight when Philippe and his lover returned to St.-Cloud, and of course the servants were nonplussed.  “Monsieur,” cried his valet, “why on earth are you back so soon?  What has happened?” 

“Oh, you know,” sighed Philippe.  “I drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry.” 

The End


End file.
